


The Once and Future Queen

by MorganRay



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Hurt/Comfort, The Problem of Susan, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 08:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganRay/pseuds/MorganRay
Summary: Susan returns to Narnia and finds Caspian's sons and Cair Paravel in the grip of a curse.





	The Once and Future Queen

Susan propped her head against her hand and batted her lashes like she had practiced in the mirror. It was a winning look and thank God for her looking glass because men could be so dull. In truth, she had forgotten most of what Thaddeus (“Call me Tad”) Wilkins had told her about the latest essays he’d written on some classic Greek work. Did he ever think about anything except his work? She had done herself up for him.

Susan suppressed a sigh and relied on etiquette and good breeding to maintain a facade of interest. Susan had met Tad while taking a Latin class--_his_ Latin class. At first, she had been just another pupil, but he wasn’t so old (in his thirties and an assistant professor), and she did need lots of help passing her studies. Most days, going to university felt like a mistake. It was a minor miracle Bedford College had accepted her (in no small part due to her swimming and archery prowess), but her coursework remained an arduous struggle. Tad’s special attentions had been welcomed at first, but she had to confess she hadn’t really understood what he’d wanted until their group sessions turned into one-on-one meetings. Then, it became all too clear, but she was too indebted to him to back out of their arrangements now.

Silly Susan--she should have known he didn’t have some altruistic need to help her limp her way through his class. He wanted what most men wanted from her--a date. (Or something more, but she hardly felt the need was reciprocal.) At first, Tad more refreshing than the typical lad, but like a fingernail scratching away a layer of gilt paint to reveal rust, his facade had worn thin. He talked about the classics, but they were a roundabout way for Tad to talk about his true passions--himself and how much he knew about...well, everything.

A boring lunch date was certainly worth a good mark in class, though. Susan could let him down gently later. She composed her face and allowed herself to at least enjoy a brilliant spring day sitting out on a cafe patio. If nothing else, it was bliss to wear shorter sleeves and a lighter skirt after the oppressive London winter and early spring mud-and-slush season. She thought the blue polka-dotted skirt looked quite fetching on her, too, even if it was wasted on this dreary date.

Gazing over Tad’s shoulder, Susan spied a raven that alighted on a railing. The bird pecked haphazardly at leftover crumbs on a plate before the waiter shooed it away. A small and surprisingly genuine smile touched Susan’s lips when the bird hopped onto a branch and shot a disdainful look at his harasser. It lifted its tail and pooped, and Susan put a hand over her face to surprise a giggle. (It was a childish thing.)

“Susan, what’s the bother?” Tad asked.

Tilting her head slightly, Susan refocused on Tad. “Oh, nothing--just enjoying the birds and good weather,” she said, surprised he had even taken notice of her distraction. Other than a perfunctory injury about her day, Tad hadn't taken note of internal life at all.

Tad’s smile reminded Susan of her father just before he patted her on the head as a child and told her what a ‘good girl’ she was. Susan swallowed a sigh of exasperation. Tad said, “Quite--spring was bound to arrive eventually. It always does.”

“Not soon enough for my taste.” Susan fiddled with the napkin in her lap. When she let her gaze drift to the branch again, the raven had flown away. The bird had good sense. A pity she couldn’t do the same.

“Like I was saying, maybe a spell in Rome would do me some good this summer. Of course, it’ll be oppressively hot, but one’s mind gets stale teaching at a women’s college all year.”

Maybe teaching is boring because the teacher is a dullard, Susan thought. What she dared to say was, “Rome sounds wonderful. I’ve never been.”

Nodding approvingly, Tad took a sip of his tea before biting into more pastry. The flakey crumbs fell into his beard, and Susan had to focus her gaze on the linen tablecloth to hide her disgust from him. “If you would show more aptitude for your studies, I am sure I could arrange us a little trip,” Tad said and mercifully dabbed his face with a napkin.

Blinking rapidly, Susan’s stuttering brain was saved by the waiter coming to bring them post-lunch espressos. With a practiced, flattering smile, Susan excused herself to the bathroom. After closing the white door to the women’s lavatory, Susan fumbled with the latch but it wasn’t out of nerves. Anger licked her veins like sparks from a firework. Once alone, her surface frustration bubbled and congealed into a hard pit in her stomach. Leaning against the door, Susan swore.

“Damn that man,” she hissed under her breath. “Who does he think he is?”

She sighed. “The professor that gives you your marks, that’s who.”

Closing her eyes, Susan took several breaths but the hot feeling in her chest remained heavy and pressing her down like a weight. Of all men, why did this one infuriate her to such a heightened degree? He wasn’t wrong--she was an atrocious student that preferred to go for a walk or a swim instead of sitting with her studies. She left the book learning to Edmund and preferred to spend her time outdoors. She pitied her classmates that spent all their time in the library. All that dust couldn’t be good for a body.

Opening her eyes, Susan fixed her gaze on the white drop-ceiling. How dare that man question her ‘aptitude’. She had done things he could never imagine. She had fought. She had ruled. She had--

Susan shook her head, forcing those deviant thoughts and dream-like memories away like so many unwanted flies. Like childhood toys placed in a trunk, she tucked those parts of herself away in her mind and locked them down. Whatever she and her siblings had done or imagined had no bearing on her reality in this world. No magic could help her pass her exams. Her newly burgeoning womanly charms secured her dates better than any spell. She had no use for such childish things as...as…

“_Narnia_,” she forced herself to say the word aloud, even if it was just a whisper. Her blood beat in her ears, but the chatter of the cafe droned on although it was muffled by the door. Immediately, Susan suppressed a little laugh at how silly she had been for barely daring to think of it. What of Narnia and childish games? Why shouldn’t she think of them? Narnia was a great deal more interesting than Tad’s oatmeal-colored suit and even blander conversation. She grinned wolfishly--imagine what that bore would think if she told him about Narnia! _Ha_! If he thought her so unserious already, she should tell him the story of the wardrobe. At least she wouldn’t have to listen to him talk a blessed second more.

Nerves steadied, Susan pushed away from the door to examine herself in the lengthwise mirror. As she smoothed her skirt, her bright red lips tilted into a frown. She shifted her weight from foot-to-healed-foot. Truly, she had dressed too well for this date. As she repinned her hair, Susan met her own blue-eyed gaze. Instead of practicing coquettish gazes from magazines or aping the wide-eyed awe of a besotted beau, Susan found herself staring at a face she hadn’t seen in quite some time. True, she wore her usual make-up and updo, but underneath that shown an almost forgotten queenly visage. Her gaze was harder but not unkind. Her cutting blue eyes contrasted with a serene brow and neutral set to her mouth. The entire portrait bespoke someone of high nobility, and no amount of modern clothing or style could hide a deeper truth to Susan that even she rarely allowed herself to glimpse.

Standing straight, Susan faced herself. The lid to those memories popped free, and she allowed herself to remember. She had been a queen--she could almost see the crown nestled in her curls. She had ruled from Cair Paravel as Susan the Gentle. She stepped towards the mirror and allowed the image in her mind to come into focus. After growing up in Narnia, she and her siblings had been forced back to Britain. Maybe, if she could have stayed, she would have remained the serious woman with high cheekbones and a commanding gaze that stared back at her now. That woman would’ve never deemed to even bat an eyelash at a worm like Tad.

Susan reached out and touched the woman in the mirror. Her fingers strayed up to where her crown would sit. A longing burst in her like a dam overburdened with snowmelt and spring rains. As her eyes blurred with tears, her fingers clenched on the glass.

Then, they slid through--cool and free--into the other side. Gasping, Susan tugged her hand back, but the mirror tugged it in as if she had stepped in quicksand. With a cry, Susan braced herself, but the mirror reached out with liquid tendrils and took her other hand. Her heels skidded across the tile before she was unable to resist the force and toppled forward into the silver liquidy abyss.

Susan had no expectations for her landing. How could she? A mirror had never accosted her before. A bad hair day or a pimple was the worse she ever expected from mirrors. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She had thought of _ that place _ again--bloody Narnia! As she staggered across the stone floor of a castle in her polished heels, Susan knew where she’d landed. Oh, she didn’t know the specifics, but the general location--bloody Narnia--was a solid guess. She staggered forward and caught herself on the edge of a desk. Looking up, both Susan and the creature at the desk jumped back in surprise.

The creature’s face had a goatish look to it but all of the features were exaggerated. A pair of antelope-like horns rose several feet from its head. Russett streaks graced its ebony fur, and a pair of red eyes completed the Satanic look. Susan had seen something like this creature before--a literal goat demon--and it had fought for the White Witch. Fear trickled down Susan’s spine like cold water. Then, in her hands, she felt a weight. On physical and magical instinct, she knew what she held. Susan knocked an arrow and drew her bow.

The creature’s eyes widened, and it held out its hands. It slumped down into the high-backed chair, shielding itself with nothing but its own piteous pleas. “Please! Wait!”

Maybe it was because the creature spoke that steadied Susan’s hands. Maybe it was because she considered herself a fair person and not a wanton killer. Either way, a tick of time slowed Susan’s raw nerves. She steadied herself with a deep breath. In a whisper, she asked, “Do you serve the White Witch?”

The goat demon peered through its long fingers tipped with black claws. It scrunched up its face, and confusions shown in its red eyes. “The...the White Witch? God no! She died even before my father was born.”

“Oh,” Susan said, pursing her lips. “That’s...reassuring. We didn’t get on.”

The creature let out a strangled sound that was half sigh and half groan. “No decent person did, but I swear I don’t traffic with dark forces. Please...let me explain.”

Shifting her weight from foot-to-foot, Susan let the reality of the situation sink in. She had arrived in Narnia in what appeared to be someone’s study. Books were jammed onto shelves that long ago had passed their holding capacity. Summoning the bow had been unexpected--she didn’t remember being able to do that on her previous stints in Narnia--but now that she’d done it, part of her bulked at that warlike instinct. True, the creature had startled her. It looked fearsome and demonic at first glance, but she thought herself smarter than that. She soothed her magic frazzled senses and forced herself to study what she’d only blindly glimpsed in her initial panic. The creature cowered in the chair, and it wore a well-made blue robe that seemed too high class for a goat demon (a creature she remembered wearing nothing more than a loincloth). While the creature had fearsome features when she met its eyes, the unmistakable wideness of fear shown through.

It was afraid of her. Her! What harm could a simple school girl do? Oh, right--her raised weapon.

With a flush of shame, Susan unstrung her arrow and lowered the bow. She had bulked at killing anything when she had ruled in Narnia. Had her absence made her so callous? Through tight lips, Susan said, “Forgive my bad manners. I don’t usually go around--”

“Attacking people?” the creature offered.

“Quite,” Susan said. Strange that she should feel so vulnerable. She was the one with the bow.

Susan’s spine prickled, and she straightened herself in an instinctive gesture to compose herself. She flashed a sheepish grimace as she glanced at the bow, which was still raised in tensed arms. Even without an arrow in it, she still threatened the stranger. My, she had lost her manners. Unlike a purse, there was no casual, graceful way to set a magical longbow upon a desk. With an apologetic smile, Susan slid a stack of papers aside to rest the weapon on the corner of the sizable table. (The creature’s gaze never left her, which did nothing but heightened the blush on her cheeks. She had no reason to feel embarrassed, but her genteel upbringing had ironed a healthy dose of senseless shame into her.)

Smoothing her skirt, Susan attempted to repair her disastrous initial impression on the stranger. She said, “I don’t think we started our acquaintance off quite right, hmm? Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Susan Pevensie.”

She extended her hand like she’d been taught by her boarding school etiquette coach. A curtsey would’ve felt too girlish. The handshake would do. The creature cocked its head to the side but lowered its black clawed hands. Its brows drew together as it studied her outstretched hand like an ancient riddle in a secret tomb it had to solve. With a slight cough, Susan said, “You should take it.”

The creature waved like it was swatting away an annoying fly. “Yes, yes, I know what a handshake is.” It studied her with a veiled curiosity like a museum piece. It took all of Susan’s self-control not to fidget under its red-eyed gaze. “You said your name was Susan Pevensie...a descendant of _ the _Susan Pevensie?”

“A descendant? Surely not.” Susan put a hand over her mouth. Did she look that young? That _old_? Time worked different in Narnia, and it struck her that she had no idea what era of their time she had stumbled into.

The creature tilted its head further as if the off-kilter angle would help it study her apparent peculiarity better. Being on display like a circus freak made her skin feel too tight. She couldn’t stand still any longer and shifted her weight. Her good breeding kept her hand resolutely held out to the stranger, whom she considered to be unconsciously rude by not returning the friendly gesture. (It had been her that had barged into its study, but that was no excuse for rudeness.)

“Surely you can’t be Queen Susan.” The creature shook its head as if to dismiss the idea. “You’re so...no, that couldn’t be right. Queen Susan would be older than my father. You can’t be this...young.”

Susan wiggled her hand in the creature’s face like an impatient snake. “I am Susan Pevensie--the original Susan Pevensie--and _ it is a pleasure to meet you, sir _.”

Like he was about to reach into an open stove, the stranger raised a clawed hand. Susan froze and let him wrap his long, hairy fingers around hers. His hand was warm, and he glanced between their clasped hands and her face several times. Impatience bubbled in her, but his hesitancy once again allowed her to tap the brakes on her emotions. A brash, oddly dressed woman (by Narnia standards) dropping into one’s study and threatening one with a bow could cause distress. Susan’s neck warmed in an embarrassed flush. She had scared him. It had been a mutual frightening.

The creature tightened its grip and properly squeezed Susan’s hand. Her heart jumped but not in panic. It had taken him so long to respond that she’d grown distracted. The creature straightened in his seat and composed himself like a scholar that had been briefly interrupted but thought nothing of it after seeing it was a curious pupil at his door. Clearing his throat, he said, “I am Branwen, second son of Caspian and current acting viceroy in Cair Paravel.”

Susan blinked like she had a particularly pesky eyelash. “Caspian’s...son? God, no wonder you thought...his _ son _?”

Branwen wrinkled his nose in something that might’ve been a grin. (Susan wasn’t practiced at reading the emotions of goat men.) He said, “So you understand the confusion now. My father told me stories of his adventure with you when he was a young man. You should be older than he is now, but I wager you’re younger than I am, which is curious.”

Susan let out a little tittering breath of a laugh. “Yes, curious--just that one thing.”

Her tongue stuck in her mouth. She couldn’t bear to ask Branwen about his mother. A flush overcame her, and she dropped her gaze as if even looking at the goat man would allow him to read her thoughts. Well, Caspian had wanted to forge new alliances with the Narnians...she just never thought he might do it so Biblically.

“I have a fair number of my own questions, yes, but at least we’ve established the basic formalities,” Branwen said.

“Have we? I feel utterly bewildered still.” Susan felt stripped of her hard-won poise when she glanced at Branwen again. Bemusement played in his gaze like romping deer, but he didn’t mean it unkindly.

“Yes, well, it was you that appeared in my room and ran into my desk,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “I was just doing a bit of research.”

Susan’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t have any...much...control over tripping in here terribly rude and unannounced. I can help you put things in order. Shall I?”

Standing up, Branwen dropped Susan’s hand. She pulled it back to her as if it wasn’t quite her own. She hadn’t realized he’d held it long enough to make her warm. She went to pick up a stack of papers, but he waved her away. Not wanting to get swiped by his claws, she stepped out of distance. At least she hoped she looked unoffensive and graceful and not like a fearful klutz. Branwen said, “This tripe can wait. You need to come and talk to my brother and I. However you got in--tripping, falling, swimming--matters little. You see, you’re the first guest we’ve had in...in almost a year. It feels longer. It’s a miracle you’re here at all. No one else has gotten in.”

Now it was Susan’s turn to tilt her head in confusion. Her mouth opened but a thousand questions jostled for supremacy. The one that won was, “Got in where--this room?”

Branwen shook his head and gestured her to follow him. “No, we’ve been trapped in Cair Paravel. Come--you should speak to Rillian as well. That will allow us to sort this out only once.”

Glancing at her bow, Susan hesitated. Surely, he wouldn’t be the first strange man (even if he was physically the oddest) that she’d followed somewhere. He’d proven he had no intention of harming her, and the prospect of a mystery intrigued her even if it irritated her like mental splinters. She wanted answers but didn’t quite know how to phrase the questions. Her sluggish brain would have to learn to keep up.

Branwen’s hooves clicked across the floor in time with the tapping of her own heels. She pretended not to hear the eerie echo and her gaze wandered to the tapestried walls. Pictures of Narnians and humans woven in brilliant sunset colors brightened the windowless corridor. They scenes stretched onwards but none of them tugged on any specific memories. With a start, Susan realized she had been hunting for her own face. How vain yet it was a natural curiosity to want to know how Caspian and his court remembered her. These bucolic pictures of a peaceful and prosperous reign gave her no hint of what her allies and friends had thought of her.

With a delicate yet practiced cough, Susan asked, “How can it be bad to be trapped in Cair Paravel? It’s a secure city, and you’re not acting like you’re under siege.”

Branwen shot her a pitying glance. “Ours is not a siege with weapons and armies but a magical one. I assure you, we’re as imprisoned as if a hundred thousand soldiers stood outside the gate.”

Only their footsteps echoed in Susan’s ears. “It’s so quiet, though. One would think an attack would at least announce itself.”

“Sometimes, malic is banal and dull,” Branwen said with a heavy sigh. His ears flickered when Susan met his gaze. She knew all about the suffocation of boredom and the prison of an unstimulated soul.

Branwen picked up his pace doing down the stairs, and Susan struggled to match him in her heels. Her outfit had been a quality pick for a date (albeit an unwanted one) on a mild spring day, but she shivered in the damp castle hallways of Cair Paravel. The joy of the tapestries were distractions at the edge of her vision. An attack on Cair Paravel itself would take a mighty amount of magic. Fear accumulated in Susan’s mind like slow dripping water as she tried to imagine what type of monster could do such a thing. Even the White Witch hadn’t hoped to attack the thrones of Cair Paravel directly. Whatever dark magic had assaulted Caspian, his family, and his court took shape in her imagination as rough, black shadows with too many eyes and arms reaching from all directions. At the center, despite how ridiculous it was, Susan could only imagine the White Witch.

That enemy was long dead. Someone or something worse had replaced her. Jogging like a tottering antelope to match pace with Branwen, Susan asked, “Surely you know who has trapped you? There can’t be many in Narnia with enough power to challenge Cair Paravel directly.”

They entered a large dining room. It looked like it could hold at least fifty guests but was only set for three. Susan rushed away from her chilly fears and drew abreast with Branwen, who shook his head. His red eyes stared into the distance, and he seemed to see something beyond the room. Susan chewed on her lower lip in an unladylike fashion.

“Caspian would never let this happen,” Susan said.

Branwen deflated like an old balloon. Weariness hung off him like an old man. “If my father had been here, it might not have. He went missing days before this calamity happened. His absence might have provided the perfect opportunity to strike Cair Paravel.”

Susan bulked and teetered like a tree in a gale. “Caspian is missing? You didn’t think it important to mention that sooner?”

Unable to meet Branwen’s drunkenly wandering gaze (she felt he was deliberately avoiding her like a guilty toddler), Susan settled for staring at the finely polished dining table. She rested against it as an anchor to calm her whirling mind the scattered her logical thoughts into so much emotional debris. At the heart of it, she couldn’t fathom what would make Caspian abandon his duty and his family. From what she recalled, he had been honorable to all and just to a fault (it had nearly cost him his life at the hands of his treacherous uncle).

“I don’t suppose you saw my father or know anything about his whereabouts? You’re the first person to break through the enchantment,” Branwen said. Susan shrugged and felt reduced to a timid girl under his weighty stare. He wasn’t being unkind, but he expected Queen Susan and not a mediocre student from a woman’s college.

“I’m afraid not,” she whispered and ducked her head. “I haven’t been back to Narnia in...well, it has been a while. The last I saw of Caspian was at his coronation.”

“Then it has been a while,” Branwen muttered and stroked at his goatly beard. “If I recall, neither you nor King Peter has returned since then. At least, that’s what our records say.”

Lucy had tried to talk to Susan about Narnia, and Susan cursed herself silently for not listening to her sister. Wide-eyed and excited, Lucy had come to Susan’s room and babbled some story about sailing to islands and looking for Aslan’s table. Instead of curiosity, Susan had rebuked her. Wasn’t it time they stopped playing pretend? Why couldn’t Lucy learn to grow up? Didn’t she know all the boys would think her odd if she kept babbling about make-believe lions and playground adventures?

The memory-filled Susan’s stomach with an acidic shame. Eyes red, Lucy had run off and not spoken to Susan again for...God, Susan didn’t know how long. Life had wedged a solid wall of silence between the two sisters. They’d never been close, but Susan had grown up faster than Lucy. Moving into the Bedford dorms had taken priority, and Susan had been busy training for a swim. Lucy might not have said a word to her for weeks. She certainly had never broached the taboo subject of Narnia with Susan ever again.

The victory settled hollow in Susan’s stomach. For what good it did now, she had won--Lucy never spoke about Narnia again. Swallowing a hard lump, Susan said, “I haven’t been back. I’m afraid I might be worse than useless to you, Branwen. I’m not the Queen you were told about.”

Susan forced herself to meet Branwen’s confused gaze. Before he could speak, the door at the other end of the hall banged open, and Susan started. By now, she had become somewhat tolerant of Branwen’s satyr-like features, but the large boar man striding down the hall in a tight silver and white tunic plunged her senses into ice water all over again. At least this time, she had the sense not to call upon her bow. Pulling her gaze away to avoid gawking like a common halfwit, Susan shot Branwen a questioning look.

“We were looking for you,” Branwen said and gestured for the boar man to join them. “This is Susan Pevensie.”

Susan fixed an imploring gaze on Branwen, who’d gestured to the newcomer. (Surely he wasn’t waiting for her infamous courteous reflexes to take over again.) It’s not exactly that she was frightened of the stranger, but he reminded her of what might happen if the minotaur of Greek myth had been a massive, tusked boar instead. Under the fat, chunks of muscle shifted like rock slabs, but when she met his grey eyes, there was a keenness there she hadn’t expected. It was that intelligence more than anything that jolted Susan to her senses.

With less childish insistence than she had done with Branwen, Susan proffered her hand. “Susan Pevensie. And you are?”

To her everlasting pride, Susan didn’t flinch when the boar man took her hand and kissed it. With a grace that felt dreamlike, she maintained composure and met the boar man’s eyes. In that instant, she could almost believe she had been Queen. In a light and sing-song voice at jarring odds with his bestial looks, the boar man said, “Charmed, Lady Susan. I am Rillian, Heir to the Throne of Cair Paravel.”

Susan’s composure snapped like a twig in an abrupt, gusting wind. She glanced between Branwen and Rillian. That Caspian could have one heir like Branwen...that she could believe, but this? With an exasperated squeak, Susan said, “You can’t be related. You look nothing alike! And I met Caspian and assure you he did not have horns or hooves. If you’re playing a joke on me, it’s gotten quite old.”

The sound of Susan’s hammering heart sounded loud enough in her ears to fill the entire room. She stood ready for Branwen and Rillian’s rebukes, but they turned to each other. Gesturing towards Susan, Rilian hissed, “When did she arrive? And did you explain anything to her or were you chatting her up?”

“She arrived in my study recently,” Branwen said, and he rubbed the back of his neck but didn’t look Susan’s way. “I told her that Cair Paravel was under magical siege and that our father is missing. I thought the fact that we’re under a curse was terribly obvious.”

Susan’s mouth formed a perfect, silent ‘oh’. A curse on Caspian’s family. That did make more sense than whatever macabre breeding schemes for Branwen and Rilian’s parentages that she’d been concocting in her subconscious. Pulling out a seat at the table, Susan plunked down and relished resting her feet. Both brothers glanced down at her, and she gave them a pinched, weary gaze in return.

“I fear I’m feeling a little slow on the uptake. If you’re going to enlighten me what has been going on in Narnia, I would dearly love to rest my feet...it might take some time.”


End file.
